The Boatman's Wife(28)

‘No,’ Lily said tightly. Should she tell her dad about the email? Her instinct was not to. She felt protective of Connor’s memory.

‘That’s a real shame,’ her dad said. ‘You have to keep trying. But we’ll make it special, Lily. Connor might have been from Ireland, but he became one of us, a Downeaster from Maine.’

Lily was cornered. She didn’t want to have to say goodbye to Connor, but deep down she knew her parents were right. Her husband was never coming back and she had to face it. But who had her husband really been? The anonymous email seemed to indicate a man she didn’t really know at all. She felt a flash of anger, and she wanted to hurt someone. It was the only way she could feel better.

‘What happened, Daddy?’ Lily said to him, standing up off her stool. ‘Tell me the damn truth. Why were you out in the middle of nowhere when there was a raging storm?’

Her father’s face shut down.

‘I’ve told you everything, Lily,’ he said. ‘I’ve been interviewed by the coastguards several times. I don’t want to talk about it right now.’

‘You don’t get to tell me that, Daddy!’ Lily’s voice rose. But her father got up off his stool, his face closed, and walked out of her house without another word.



The afternoon of the memorial, it began to snow. Big, sloppy wet flakes which thawed as soon as they hit the ground, crossing over into sleety rain and back to snow again during the drive to the church. Lily’s mom had organised a service in Rockland Congregational Church with Pastor Anderson set to officiate. It was the same church they had got married in, although afterwards, Connor had told her he’d been raised a Catholic. A fact which seemed to amuse him immensely. Lily had never bothered to tell her parents about Connor’s religious background, despite the Congregational Church being far from Catholic. But Lily did believe in God. Or she had believed in him, until Connor had been taken from her. Now she didn’t know what to think. All she knew was she felt as if her whole world had been blown up. She was in pieces. Tiny particles of blasted dust.

Lily walked into the church with her parents behind her. She was wearing a long-sleeved black dress to hide the angry rash all down her left arm, but it was itching like hell. Although it was bright outside from the snow-swirling sky, the wooden walls and rafters of the church interior glowed with soft lighting. She looked up at the ceiling, not for the first time thinking how it looked like the bow of a boat. The stained-glass windows were rich with colour, and the red carpet made the whole interior feel warm. The place was full; she was surprised to see so many from Rockland had turned up. Fishermen dressed up in suits, with their wild hair flattened down, and faces shaved for once. All looking awkward and out of place, like mermen not used to land. As Lily walked down the middle aisle to take her seat in the front pew, she was struck by the overpowering scent of lilies. Big vases of them were up by the altar, beside a framed photograph of Connor, beaming away at her. Her Mom had had to push her to find a photograph she didn’t mind being blown up. She had taken one of him standing by the sea, a close-up of his face, the wind blowing his hair, but looking free. That was important.

The scent of lilies was really getting to her. It was a cruel irony her name was the same as her husband’s funeral flower. Had no one else thought of it? They could have replaced the lilies with any other flower. She should have done it, she thought, squeezing her hands. She’d been so removed from the memorial and now she felt a crescendo of regret. What had she been thinking of? She’d let her husband down again. Let them pile the church with these stinking, tall white waxen flowers. She hated lilies. Hoped she never had to see or smell one ever again.

The congregation were singing ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’ to the accompaniment of Aunt Cherie on the piano. It sounded forlorn, not comforting. Their voices faded out as Pastor Anderson stood up before the altar to say meaningless nice things about Connor. They had to be meaningless, because he hadn’t known him. Why hadn’t Lily taken control like she usually did, and written the eulogy herself? She wanted desperately to get up and say something about Connor, but then she didn’t know what to say. The moment passed and everyone knelt down in the pews and prayed. Lily pressed her palms together and closed her eyes. Tried to pray for Connor in the next life. But her prayers felt forced. Her parents sat beside her in the pew. She could hear the quiet sobbing of her mother, and sensed her father at her side. Lily remained dry-eyed. As if floating above everyone in the church. She turned in her pew to look at her father. His head was bent in prayer, remorseful. She felt seized with a desire to scream at him. It was all his fault. How could she ever forgive him?



The memorial reception afterwards was in her parents’ house. Her mom and Aunt Cherie must have been days at the preparation. Platters of food were on every surface, and a myriad of aromas filled the small house. Lobster cakes and little pies, creamy lobster, leek and corn chowder, beer-steamed clams (Connor’s favourite), fresh poppy seed bread, split top crab rolls, and blueberry buckles. Despite the fact they were lobster fishers, they didn’t eat lobster that much because of its value – but the whole community had clearly gone all out. As more and more platters of food arrived, gifted by local wives, it felt like the whole of their little neighbourhood and the fishing community was stuffed into her parents’ sitting room, placing plates and napkins on their laps, drinking her dad’s supply of beer and whisky.